As the Sun Rises
by RavenWingDark
Summary: Charles has a chance to say goodbye to a good friend.


Charles was taking down stakes from the tipis when he came running. A Wapiti boy, a survivor of the bloody battle of the oilfields ran up to Charles and spoke quietly and quickly. Charles only listened for a few seconds before the stake clattered to the frozen ground.

Despite himself, despite the earnest, careful separation drawn between himself and Dutch's gang, he was vaulting onto Taima's back and cantering down the road. He never thought he'd go there again. Not less than a week after he left.

But the boy had told him about how the gunshots and the screaming had started, and then the gunshots and the screaming had stopped.

It was fresh news, it was dusk now, and Amik had heard the commotion a couple hours before sunset.

Taima did indeed know how important this was, and flew at the speed of Arthur's mare once they reached the Ambarino foothills. Charles focused far ahead of him, hoping that Taima's speed would keep faster than the doubts like wolves baying at their heels. There could be dozens of different reasons for the gunfire at camp. But—hadn't Charles made this decision already? To get out before he saw more people hurt, before _he_ got killed. Charles was not a conflicted man. Not usually. He'd run with the gang for a year now, but it had taken Dutch unraveling for him to realize the place he belonged was with his mother's people—protecting them. He had a duty finally, maybe even a noble one.

But he was still running headlong into his past toward a camp volatile like dynamite. A few weeks ago, Charles would have known it was the Pinkertons or the Murfree brood, but now, he was none too sure. He worried for everyone who hadn't jumped ship before he left—Abigail and Jack, Tilly, Sadie. He worried about Javier and John, who hadn't had the damn sense to leave. And he worried for Arthur, who was either so loyal or so indoctrinated, he couldn't abandon Dutch even though he knew he was set to explode. He fought back, still hoping Dutch would see sense—and that put him in the most dangerous place when he was far from fighting fit.

He arrived at Beaver Hollow at nightfall, when the stars twinkled back to life, and found the campsite ravaged. He had hidden Taima, and made sure no one was still there. His former camp was empty, but the aftermath spread out before him. Bodies of Pinkertons lay about, tents ripped by bullet spray. He saw Jack's bedding and storybook, shot full of holes. Charles kept moving, full of dread as he recognized a body—a dark figure of Miss Grimshaw sprawled on the ground. Charles stooped down next to her, touching her cool cheek and noticing her bloodied stomach grimly. He wrapped her gently in blankets to protect her from the elements, so he could come back to bury her if the others didn't come back first.

He traced the footsteps, which all seemed to congregate near where Miss Grimshaw had been laying. This must have been where the shoot out had started. Which meant the people there had known each other well enough, to get that close. From there, groups of footprints led in every direction— five, maybe six, one way, Pinkertons; a few single person tracks, and finally a set of two, toward the caves.

He called Taima to him and continued on.

Charles followed where the footprints became hoof prints with renewed speed. He wanted to be relieved. If these tracks had gotten to horses, there was a chance they could have escaped. Still, Charles couldn't ignore the way the hair stood up at the back of his neck and his heartbeat hadn't settled since finding the camp.

He followed the tracks until he was close to Ambarino, heading back in the direction he came from. Two large animals lay still behind an outcropping of rocks. Charles slid off Taima, feeling dread almost painfully heavy in his stomach. He approached the closest beast, the sleek black Arabian mare Arthur had doted on. Promenade had been inseparable from Arthur, through firefights and hunting trips. Once as fast as the wind, she lay still and broken beside John's Old Boy.

He'd been right about the trail. Horribly so. He stroked the mare's neck and pull out his knife, cutting away a tangle of the mare's wild black mane and putting it in his bag before continuing on up the mountain with renewed haste. If they were on foot, then Charles felt the last dredges of hope fade away. When he'd seen Arthur a week ago, he'd been pale, and thinner than Charles would have believed he could ever be when he'd meet him. He doubled over in coughing fits and still Charles was sure Arthur had hid the worst effects of the disease from them. Arthur could not navigate these mountains, not even with John with him.

He could only hope that Arthur had seen John to safety.

As Charles continued up the mountain, he found evidence of gunfire. Gunshots scoring and pocking rock. Bodies of Pinkertons. More stray gunfire. Arthur was too good a shot for that, but even John's aim was far better than this. He came across copse of level ground, splattered with blood, subtly illuminated in the earliest morning gleam. There had been a fight, but one of force rather than gunfire. He recognized the droplets as fist-fighting—something he knew well.

Suddenly, Charles had a sense of dread and foreboding so great and so strong, it broke through his grim countenance and he felt his body stop mid-step. He would see Arthur here. The amount of blood wouldn't be something his friend could shake off. And he didn't see his body fallen off the cliff. So he would be here, around the corner. Another name on the list of those whose lives Dutch's foolishness had claimed.

He took three deep breaths and prayed for strength. He walked around the corner to see a view of the pre-dawn plains, and his friend laying still on the ground.

Charles kneeled. Arthur's face was cut and bruised and fractured and he was sure the damages didn't end there. His face was pale and his hands bloody and limp.

Charles spoke for the first time that day, repeating the words he'd said to Arthur only a couple weeks ago. "Oh, Arthur." There was nothing else to say. To lament the loss of a man who'd found himself, who had shaped sharp broken pieces into something good after decades of living hard. Whip smart and loyal to a fault. Who'd put a family before himself a dozen times when he should have worried about himself. Whose quiet charisma had roped in nearly everyone. But he'd lived as a shadow to Dutch, silver to his gold, a ghost to his empire.

Charles heard a whistled breath like wind through reeds.

"That you…Charles?"

Charles froze, then his eyes shot to Arthur's face. They were half-open, glimmering, alive.

"Arthur!" His hands went to his friend's shoulders in shock. "You're alive."

Arthur wheezed quietly. "I'm still breathing." His teeth were stained with blood.

"I'll get you out of here, get you some—" Charles hooked his hands under Arthur's shoulders to pick him up. Arthur gasped out before he clamped his mouth shut with a low whine. Charles immediately lowered him a few inches back to the ground. If there was any color left in his face, it had disappeared now as Arthur lay there, gasping in pain.

"I'm sorry brother, I…I'm not going nowhere," he said finally.

Charles stayed quiet for a moment, beating down the hope that had swelled up, before laying a hand on his shoulder. "I understand."

Arthur smiled lightly, eyes closed.

Charles reached into his bag. "Do you need something for the pain?"

"No, I, I'd rather feel, while it's there."

Charles still pulled something from his bag, placing the first item into Arthur's hand. Arthur's shaking hand held it up and he inspected it. A small, carved wooden stag.

"Rain Falls wanted me to give this to you. He says you are a true friend of the Wapiti and that you will meet again."

"A buck, huh, that wise…old—" A weak coughing fit hit him. It left him choking more than breathing.

"And this from Promenade." Charles put the lock of horsehair in his hand, watching as Arthur's face hardened with grief he tried to rein in.

"Prom." His hand dropped to the ground, though he kept hold of the two gifts.

"It was Micah." Charles guessed. What was it Arthur had said 'revenge is a luxury we can't afford?' Hadn't that been true with the O'Driscoll's and Murfree's and the Cornwell's? Even seeing what that traitor had done to his friend, he couldn't allow himself to let anger control him. Neither Charles nor Arthur were that man anymore.

"Micah…that traitor. If only I weren't…sick, I could of…and those Pink…" When spoke again, there was more rush in his voice. Time is a luxury too.

"I know, I know." Charles assured. Not long ago, Arthur could have taken him out with a solid punch to the jaw. Would have finished off the half dozen Pinkertons with a clip.

"A-and Dutch…he was there, I begged him not to…to go with Micah. But—" his voice cracked and broke off with an escape of air.

"You did everything you could."

"John. He…he's going back to his family…to Copperhead Landing. Marston's gonna get out. Abigail help that," his breath seemed to run out, as he shook slightly, "damn foolish boy…be a real father. A better one than he…or I, ever been."

Charles watched his face, too focused to feel surprised that Arthur was, or had been, a father. He wished he had the words to comfort his friend—to tell him John got out, but he didn't know, and Arthur would know that. Charles had already told him what he needed to say to him riding through the mountains. Instead, he said, "Arthur, look. The night's over."

Arthur looked over out at the peeking of the first golden rays of the sun over the plains. Everything was so startlingly clear. He could see a herd of deer begin to graze. And the sweetgrass and the rocks and the trees, as the small streaks of light lengthened across the grass fields.

Charles watched the sunrise, captivated for a few moments before looking down at his friend. "Arthur?"

There was no response.

"Arthur?"

No answer. Arthur was still, laying against the rocks, head turned to watch the night retreat.

Charles pressed his forehead against Arthur's. He took several long moments to compose himself before he spoke.

"Good morning, brother."

* * *

 **This game took over my life. I have ideas for more stories, so please review if you'd like more!**


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